I can hear the shouting,
though it’s vague and difficult to discern
over the clamor of the newsie, verbal paparazzi
providing us 24×7 coverage of
“We don’t really give a shit,
but they never did find that fucking Malaysian plane.”
Beneath the civil unrest, there’s bubbling turmoil.
“We’ve been here before” and
Missouri trees bear strange fruit,
blood on the streets, brothas to shoot.
But poets whisper, the street urchins
are beat-boxing ’bout Nikki Minaj’s booty
and Jay-Z’s beatdown in elevator shafts
that only go down, while rising.
Back inna day, there’d be a different
Nikki at the microphone
and she wouldn’t be whispering. But
these are the days of million-dollar
hip-hop “poets” too busy in their box seats
to be bothered with the streets.
I wonder if the revolution happened
Brother Gil told us it wouldn’t be televised
but I thought CNN might have mentioned it.
So I sit back and remember 1970
because visions of Kent State, as fractious
and damnable as they are
remind me that pigs hate whitey too.
Hell, the only thing we have left
I can hear my grandma calling:
“Somebody turn the channel. This damn
television is stuck on 1970.”
Maybe somebody should write
a song about it. Want ta hear it?
Here it go:
“Ain’t no niggas, ain’t no whiteys
ain’t no magic anymo’
Ya’ll don’t hear me, though I’m shoutin’
Ain’t no Ferguson, No MO.
I don’t think this microphone is turned on.